“You don’t talk to Hopkins,” I say. “You listen to her.”
“I don’t want to do either. I don’t even know what she’s talking about half the time. And she treats me like I’m a moron. I’m not crazy about the way she treats you, either.”
“I’m her little sister. You know how that is. You’re not always that nice to your little sister. But you love her.”
“My little sister is a jerk. You’re great. Hopkins doesn’t appreciate you enough.” The elevator pings and the doors open. “Meet me downstairs in ten minutes, okay?”
“Thanks for getting the car.” We had to park a few blocks away.
“No problem—I’m happy to give you a few more minutes with your family.” He steps inside the elevator.
“You mean, you’re happy to have an excuse to escape early.”
The doors close before he has a chance to deny that. Not that he would.
Right as I’m turning around, Jacob emerges from my dad’s apartment, a bag of garbage in each hand. “Oh,” he says and looks like he’s almost ready to retreat back inside, but then he just says, “Garbage chute,” and keeps going.
“I think it’s behind that door.” I point.
“Yeah, I know.”
Of course, he does. He’s spent more time here than anyone except Dad. And I’m sure he’s taken out the garbage many more times than Dad has. In fact, I doubt Dad ever has, probably just lets it pile up until Jacob or the cleaning lady takes care of it.
I could wiggle past him and go back into the apartment, but both of his hands are full, and the door to the utility room is closed.
And in all honesty, I’m a little bit curious about what he’s feeling toward me right now. I mean, the last time we were together, we were…together. We haven’t seen each other since then, unless you count the miserable conversation we had right after. He hasn’t looked at me or spoken directly to me once this evening. Some part of me wants to know if it’s anger or circumspection or frustrated desire—or all of the above. This is probably my only chance to be alone with him to find out.
So instead of returning to the apartment, I open the utility room door for him. A light comes on, triggered by the door, and illuminates the tiny room. I follow Jacob inside and pull open the garbage chute for him. The door closes behind us.
He tosses in the bags, one after the other. I keep the chute open so we can hear them rolling all the way down. It takes a while. “That never grows old,” I say.
“It is oddly satisfying.”
“We don’t have one in our building. We just put the trash out in the back hallway, and someone collects it.”
“Sounds like luxury. The only one taking the garbage out to the street at my place is me.”
So. We’ve made conversation. I’m encouraged by this and try to think of something else to say. I need him to know I’m ready to get back to our old footing, where we were simply pals. So I say—oh so casually and good-naturedly—“Hey, did my friend Cathy e-mail you about getting together? She told me she might.” I figure this way he’ll know I’m cool with his seeing someone, that whatever happened between us can and should be ignored.
His face darkens. He says in a low, vicious voice, “I’m not going to discuss my romantic life with you, Keats. Not now. Not ever.”
I take a step back. “I thought you said we were still friends.”
“In retrospect, that might have been an exaggeration.” He pushes past me, opens the door, and leaves. The door swings shut again. I’m alone in the garbage room. And I’m stunned.
I could always bully and tease Jacob into doing what I wanted—and into forgiving me when I pushed him too far—but apparently I’ve lost that ability.
* * *
I follow him back to my Dad’s apartment. He doesn’t hold the door for me. I catch it before it’s completely swung shut, just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I check it.
Got the car. Be there in 2 mins.
I put it back in my pocket.
The others are still sitting around the coffee table. Someone’s put out a box of chocolates, probably a leftover gift from when Dad was in the hospital. Hopkins is talking, and Mom and Dad are leaning forward like they don’t want to miss a single word. So is Jacob, who’s sitting next to Hopkins. I can only see his face from the side, but it looks intent and interested—no trace of the angry man who stalked away from me a minute earlier.
I move closer, curious to hear what’s keeping everyone so enthralled.
“So this guy sits down every day at the same table in the rec room and writes. Pages and pages. He fills up one notebook, then another, then another. He barely moves, except to eat or when we make him get some exercise. But he always closes the journals when he’s done and writes ‘private’ all over them. We want to respect his privacy, but we’re dying to see what he’s writing. Maybe he’s the next Anthony Trollope, right? Of course, it could also be pornography. Or random words. And then his shrink decides, well, maybe we should have a peek, just to make sure that—” Hopkins stops because of the ringing.
Ringing that’s coming from the phone in my pocket. Everyone turns to look at me. I hold up a finger, mutter “excuse me,” and move away to answer it.
Tom says, “Did you get my text? I’m pulling up in front. I’ll have to circle around if you don’t come out soon.”
“I’m coming.” I hang up and tell the others I have to go.
Hopkins gets up. “I’m leaving first thing in the morning, so I probably won’t see you again on this trip,” she says. I can feel her phone vibrating in her hand as we hug briefly.
“I wish we’d had more time together,” I say.
She agrees as she looks down at her cell.
“Can’t Tom find something else to do?” Mom says. “So you can stay longer? I took the T in, but Jacob, you have your car here, don’t you? Could you drive Keats home if she stays?”
Before he can even react to that suggestion, I quickly say, “I should go anyway. It’s—I need to get home.” I have no excuse beyond that.
Mom looks disappointed. “It’s so rare that I see you girls together like this.”
“Well, we’re busy people,” Hopkins says, still peering at her BlackBerry.
“When are you going to get out to the house to go through your stuff?” Mom asks her.
Hopkins doesn’t even look up, just says absently, “I don’t know. I’ll try, but it might not happen. You have my permission to just throw everything out.”
“That’s just not practical.”
I cut in. “I really have to go. Tom will kill me if I’m not downstairs soon.” I quickly lean over to hug my dad and then my mom, but then I don’t know what to do because in the past I’d have given Jacob the same kind of familial embrace, and now if I don’t, it might look weird, but after that last exchange in the garbage room, I don’t feel like I should even go near him. I just kind of wave my fingers in his direction. He doesn’t respond.
“Good-bye, guys,” I say and get my purse, which I’d left on the little round table. I head toward the door as Hopkins sits back down on the sofa and says, “Where was I?”
Jacob says, “The shrink said you guys should go ahead and look at the journals.”
“Oh, right. So now we feel like we have permission, but we can’t let any of the patients see us do it. The last thing we want is to make them—”
As I close the door behind me, Mom, Dad, and Jacob are all listening eagerly. I feel shut out, like they don’t want me there because I’m not a member of their little clique, even though I know it was my decision to leave early.
What bothers me the most is the way Jacob was ignoring me and paying so much attention to Hopkins. Was he doing it to teach me some kind of lesson? To prove that he has a great relationship with every other member of my family, but I’ve blown it with him? Or is he just that fascinated by my big sister? Which would make him exactly like everyone else in the whole freaking world.
It’s not until
I’m in the car that it occurs to me I’ll never know if the crazy patient was a good writer or not.
* * *
At home, I change from the dress I’ve been wearing all day into sweatpants and a T-shirt. I pull my hair into a ponytail and crawl onto the bed next to Tom. He’s watching some ESPN highlights show but he says, “You want me to change it so we can watch something together?”
“No, it’s fine. There’s something I need to do on the computer.” I get up, fetch my laptop, and bring it back to the bed with me. By the time I have it open and am peering at my e-mail, there’s a commercial on.
Tom slides to his feet. “I’m going to grab a beer. You want anything?”
I shake my head. He leaves, and when he comes back, I point to the computer screen. “I can’t believe this.”
“What?” He eases back down on the bed, leans over to see what I’m working on.
“Rochelle asked me to read this thing she wrote—an article for a journal for educators. She said it just needed a light proofreading, but it’s a total mess. I mean, her ideas are good, but there’s no organization. Like here, on this page, she’s talking about how gender roles play into the teacher’s expectations, but then she talks about basically the same thing two pages later. It’s like she never even sat down and read it through.”
“Huh.” Tom leans back on his pillow and picks up the remote. “Guess that’s why she asked you to look at it.”
“It needs a complete rewrite, but she said to just check it over.” I gnaw on my fingernails for a moment, then add, “I want to help her, but it would take me hours to really fix it.”
“Do whatever you think is best.” He turns up the volume.
I scroll rapidly through the article for another minute or two. “Listen to this.” I read a passage out loud. When I look up, Tom’s twirling the remote in his hand. “Were you listening?”
“Yeah. It sounded okay to me. What’s wrong with it?”
“Are you kidding? She had like three different topics and six metaphors going in that one paragraph alone. And she says the teacher has to ‘literally work her fingers to the bone’ if she wants these results.”
“She’s just saying that she’d have to work really hard.”
“I know what she means,” I snap. “But you can’t say it like that.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t literally work your fingers to the bone, Tom. Not unless you’re sticking them in a jigsaw.”
There’s a pause. I’ve gone back to studying the article when Tom breaks the silence. “You always treat me like I’m some moron after you spend time with your family.”
I look up. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s true. You know I’m not a genius, but most of the time it doesn’t bother you. It’s only when we see your parents or your sister that you start acting like I’m a total idiot.”
“That’s not true.” I close my laptop and put it on the table next to the bed. “Just because I said that thing about misusing literally? That doesn’t mean anything—Rochelle’s brilliant and she got it wrong, so obviously it’s no big deal.”
“I just don’t like when you get that tone in your voice—like you’re so sick of having to explain everything in the entire world to your stupid boyfriend.”
“I don’t think that at all.” I curl up and put my head on his chest, but he doesn’t put his arms around me. “Tom, if I get impatient with you after seeing my family, it’s not because I think you’re stupid, it’s because my family puts me in a bad mood. If I take some of the tension out on you, I’m sorry. I’d rather be with you than with them any time.”
He relaxes then and puts his arm around my shoulder and rests his head on top of mine. “Yeah, I know it’s hard on you to be with them.”
“If I hadn’t met you when I did, I’d probably be as crazy as they are. You saved me, Tom.”
“Don’t forget that.” His hand wanders down along my back, cups my ass. “I like these sweatpants. They’re nice and soft.”
“You sure that’s the sweatpants?” It’s an effort to keep my voice light. We haven’t had sex—other than the blow job I gave him, which doesn’t count—since I slept with Jacob. I know there’s no way for him to tell, but it’s like “The Tell-Tale Heart”: there’s something hidden away that could betray me. And it’s my own guilt.
“Let me check,” he whispers, and his hand comes back up to the waistband of the sweats and then sneaks inside, under my underpants. “Soft here, too.”
He gets the sweatpants off of me pretty soon after that. I’m pliable and passive, willing if not eager. The sex is fine. I wish I had nothing to compare it to. The fact that I do makes me sick.
Excitement will always fade, I tell myself as Tom slides inside of me. Rack up enough years with any guy, and the sex will eventually become routine. Excitement fades, but it’s stupid to chase after it—you’ll just end up alone. Excitement fades, but other things take its place and that’s how it should be. I’m ahead of most girls my age. They’re still making themselves crazy looking for the next best thing. Me, I’ve found the forever best thing.
My body slides up and down on the comforter as Tom pushes in and out of me. Up and down. I hold on to the bed frame and pretend to come.
* * *
In the end, I do a moderate edit on Rochelle’s journal piece, cutting and pasting to bring some order to the whole thing but not actually rewriting much. She’s very grateful. I feel vaguely annoyed with her, not because of the extra work, but because I’m sick of always being the organizer, first for my brilliant family and now for my brilliant boss. Part of me wants to be brilliant and sloppy, too, and let someone else bring order to my messes, but I didn’t get the brilliant part, and there’s no gain in just being sloppy.
Mom e-mails me. She doesn’t quite get that e-mails are supposed to be informally dashed off. This one reads like it should have been written on scented paper with a pen that’s been dipped in an inkwell.
Dear Keats,
That was a lovely evening at your father’s. I’m sorry you couldn’t stay longer. Hopkins has returned to New York, and life seems to be getting back to normal for all of us, although there’s what they call a “caravan” at our house on Sunday morning and I’m supposed to get every room cleaned up and looking its best before then. So perhaps “normal” isn’t the right word.
Could you do me a favor and read the e-mail I’ve attached to the bottom of this one? It’s from Michael Goodman and I have to admit I’m somewhat uncertain of its implication. Would you please read it and call me when you have a free moment to discuss it?
Love,
Mom
Okay, now I’m curious. I scroll down and read the e-mail she’s forwarded (she doesn’t know the difference between forward and attach). This one is a lot less formal than hers.
Eloise—just wanted to let you know things are heating up at work and I’m going to be snowed under for a while. I’ll give you a call when I see the light at the end of the tunnel. Stay well. M.
I read it a couple of times, then reach for the phone. When Mom answers, I say, “It’s not good.”
“What?”
“The e-mail from Michael. I think it might be a brush-off, Mom.”
“I was wondering about that. That’s why I asked you to read it.”
“I’m sorry. It’s possible I’m wrong.” I scan the e-mail. “But I don’t think I am. When people go out of their way to tell you they won’t be in touch, it’s not usually a good sign.”
“Shoot,” she says. She sounds sad. Resigned, but sad. Makes me want to offer her some hope.
“But it’s also possible he really is just letting you know he won’t have much free time for a while, and he’ll resurface in a few weeks and—”
“No, I think your first reaction was right. I was getting a strange feeling the last time we went out. It was harder to talk. He seemed a little detached.” She sighed. “You know, when I first sent him an e-mail
—through that dating service—he admitted he was looking for someone significantly younger. But then we hit it off, and he said he’d give it a try. It’s not like he didn’t warn me.”
“At least you have those other guys, right? Paul and Irv?”
“Unfortunately, he was the one I liked the most.” She gives a small mirthless laugh. “From what I remember of my school days, this is how it always goes: you’re always in love with the guy who doesn’t want you, and the guy who wants you is never the one you want.”
“It doesn’t always work that way. The guy I like has always liked me back.”
“That relationship has definitely insulated you from any rejection.”
“I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything.”
“I’m sure this is a personal growth experience for me,” she says drily. “Painful things usually are.”
* * *
A couple of days later, Cathy Miller comes by the office to meet me for our scheduled lunch.
“I need to stop at Costco either before or after,” I tell her as we try to figure out where to go. “I have to stock up on coffee and snacks for the office.”
“You’re in charge of the shopping?”
“I’m lucky to have a job,” I say more sharply than I intend. It’s just…I’m sick of having to defend what I do.
Cathy puts her hands up. “Oh, believe me, I’m not criticizing. You have a great job. I’m jealous of it—I’m terrified I won’t get hired anywhere after all these years of school and debt.”
“Something good will come along.”
“Do you ever think about going back to school?” She can say she thinks my current job is “great” all she wants, but just by asking that question she’s implying I’m wasting my time here. Just like my family always does.
“Sometimes.” The truth is that lately I’ve been thinking about it more and more. I’m getting bored at WCC, and it’s not like there’s any promotion track. Going back to school seems more appealing now than it did right after I graduated, but I don’t know what I’d study, and I certainly don’t want my family to know it’s even a thought. They’d jump on it like a dog on a piece of dropped meat. I don’t really want to discuss it with Cathy, either, so I add, “Not seriously, though. I’m pretty happy here. So should we eat somewhere close or drive separately somewhere farther so I can go on to Costco after?”